


Marginalia

by ahazytruth



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: First War Centric, First War with Voldemort, M/M, Multiple Pov, Vignettes, Well - Freeform, wolfstar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-04 13:22:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 12,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1780612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahazytruth/pseuds/ahazytruth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of Marauders vignettes, from Remus' bite to The Order of the Phoenix, based off of W. H. Auden's Marginalia. Wolfstar and First Wizarding War centric.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The End

“Few can remember

Clearly when innocence came

to a sudden end,

the moment at which we ask

for the first time: _Am I loved?_ ”

 

The first thing Remus notices in the process of waking up is the ceiling above him, and he starts, because it isn’t his bedroom ceiling because the light isn’t like the light from the nightlight his dad charmed for him, but it isn’t a strange, unknown ceiling, either. He can’t see anything out of the corner of his eye, but then, he can’t see much of anything. Blearily, he decides that sitting up would probably help him figure out where he is.

This does not go as planned. He can’t move his arms, or his legs, or even yawn despite his best efforts, and he is suddenly very, very scared. He cries, but instead of wracking sobs there are only silent, messy tears, blurring the raised pattern of the wallpaper on the ceiling into endless white. Calling out for his dad seems like the only sensible course of action, because Dad can do magic because he’s big and Remus is little and Mummy can’t which is okay because she makes better cake which is about as good as magic anyways but Remus still can’t move his mouth which means that no one is coming to help him and his eyes are itchy and he just wants to move so he can stop staring at this stupid ceiling.

The second thing he notices is that his face stings where it’s wet. It doesn’t normally do that. Fully alert, he can feel the whole rest of himself hurting, too, all the way down to his toes. It’s hard to focus on his toes, though, because his shoulder hurts most of all, as though someone had punched a hole all the way through it. He’s never hurt his shoulder before. Sometimes Mummy complains about her shoulder after she lifts things that are even heavier than Remus, and then Dad always insists that he could’ve helped her but she looks at him funny and shakes her head and Remus has always wondered if that made her shoulder stop hurting because she never complains after that. He wants to cry again, because it hurts and Dad and Mummy aren’t here and they should be here but he’s running out of tears and he can’t even gasp and now his eyes just hurt more and --

“Remus?” Mummy calls, coming up behind him. She sounds shaky, like the domino tower he had built yesterday just before the cat knocked it down.

“Darling, he can’t speak, remember?” Dad says softly, and although Remus can hear Mummy’s footsteps coming towards him, he thinks Dad isn’t moving at all. Still, suddenly Remus can move again because he gasps and rolls over a little bit with the force of it, which hurts even more so he keeps gasping, because even if it hurts his throat he doesn’t know how to stop. Mummy scoops him up into her arms, and he can see much more -- he sees that he was lying on the pullout sofa that they use for guests, that there are dull brownish splotches on the sheets, splotches that match the color of the splotches on his bandages, which help explain why he hurts so much -- but then his face is tucked into Mummy’s neck and can’t see much of anything. Still, she strokes his hair, which mostly doesn’t hurt, and he feels a little bit better.

She lets go of him slightly after what feels like forever, and with difficulty he shifts so that he’s leaning against her instead of into her, allowing him to see at least some of the living room. He still can’t see Dad, but moving was a bit much, like stubbing his toe but everywhere at once, so he settles for rasping out, “Dad?” Behind him, Mummy turns to look at the doorway to the kitchen, where Dad must be.

Dad comes to the side of the couch, glancing at Mummy but mostly looking at his feet. Remus tries to look at Dad’s feet, too, but there’s jabby pain when he leans forward and suddenly feet don’t seem quite so important. Startled by the movement, Dad finally looks at him, but he doesn’t look like Dad, he looks like a stranger. He sort of looks at Remus the same way Auntie looks at Dad whenever she comes to visit, as though she’s not entirely sure what Dad might do and doesn’t want to be there to find out. Remus retracts his previous thought about feet and finds them quite lovely by comparison.

“Lyall!” Mummy admonishes, patting the sofa beside her. Dad sits down stiffly and collapses into himself. She takes his hand, and he nods, resolutely, before getting up to check Remus’ bandages. There’s a little crease in between his eyes and his lips are tightly pursed, but his hands are careful and Remus could almost convince himself everything was all right, if only his father would look at him and smile.

He turns, panicked, to glance up at Mummy, because something’s gone horribly, horribly wrong. She does smile, softly and sadly, and he leans into her further, reassured. Dad’s eyes remain wide and frightened a moment longer, then shutter completely as he stands up, done with the bandages. His hands twitch at his sides, unsure of what to do or where to go without a task to occupy them. Mummy holds Remus close. Dad turns on his heel and walks away.


	2. The Journey to Hogwarts (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remus makes the trip to Hogwarts, and spends a lot of time observing the boy in the compartment across from him, along with his friend, The-One-With-Glasses.

“He walked like someone

who’d never had to

open a door for himself.”

 

The boy Remus saw on the platform and the boy who is currently gamboling around the compartment across from his are one and the same, he knows, but it almost seems as though this one is the evil twin, and his good twin is in some other compartment sitting perfectly straight and still. Though Remus knows it’s rude to stare, no one will care. The other occupants of the compartment are much older than him, fifth years, maybe, and while they seem nice enough (there are two red-headed brothers who he still can’t tell apart, and one of them had offered him a Chocolate Frog), it isn’t as though they really want anything to do with him. It’s better if he simply stays quiet and doesn’t make a nuisance out of himself. Fortunately, observing the boy in the other compartment definitely fits the bill.

He’s stopped gamboling now, Remus notes, but he’s still a far cry from the solemn, stiff-backed boy who had dutifully pushed his trolley behind his father’s at the station. This version is floppy, taking up nearly a whole bench all by himself, and gesticulating wildly to illustrate some point, possibly -- Remus squints -- about Quidditch. The boy on the receiving end of the gesticulations -- The-One-With-Glasses, Remus has dubbed him -- is exactly the same, flailing about as if he hasn’t a care in the world. It’s difficult to tell who is copying whom, unless they have always been identical, which Remus somehow doubts. The-One-With-Glasses is entirely artless, as far as Remus can tell, but so is the other boy, except he suddenly stiffens and turns until he is looking directly at Remus.

Remus blinks, then stares back. The other boy’s gaze is cold and calculating, which raises Remus’ hackles, but he thinks he can see a flicker of curiosity somewhere. The boy turns away, though -- The-One-With-Glasses must have said something -- and resumes his earlier pose. For his part, Remus slinks back down in his seat, ashamed to have been caught spying and a little bit scared of retribution. He’s finished with the book he brought with him, so he settles in to listen to the fifth years, hoping that they arrive soon.

An hour passes. The older boys all leave to go put on their robes, and one of the red-headed brothers gestures that he ought to follow. He’s careful not to look at the other boy on the way there and back, despite the sneaking suspicion that he’s being more than a little paranoid, and it works, because the rest of the ride passes without incident. Finally, the train slows to a halt, and Remus files quietly out of his compartment after the fifth years, tugging his trunk behind him.

He’s lost track of the other boy and The-One-With Glasses, but he finds them standing close to the edge of the dock, peering around Hagrid at the boats waiting in the water. Remus moves forward, too, looking for whatever is tethering the rowboats to the dock and finding nothing.

“What are yeh waiting for?” Hagrid asks them, confused. “Go on, get in!”

The other boy straightens and steps proudly off the dock into a rowboat, then looks insolently back at The-One-With-Glasses as though daring him to do the same. He does, which Remus finds utterly unsurprising, somehow managing to strut onto the boat before offering a hand to the nervous-looking boy that had been standing behind him.

Suddenly, Remus is shoved from behind and stumbles forward, just managing not to fall in the lake. “Go on, don’t be shy!” Hagrid all but booms. It seems best not to argue, so Remus wordlessly clambers into the boat as well, shaking his head at the hand offered to him. As soon as he’s seated, Hagrid gives the boat a push and they’re off, each stroke of the enchanted paddles bringing them closer and closer to their home for the next seven years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just kidding -- I got excited and wanted to post another chapter. I think I'll be publishing these in sets of two from now on, since they're all pretty short, but yeah! Hope you enjoyed.


	3. The Journey to Hogwarts (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is effective parenting, two parcels (one mysterious), and one collision of trolleys at Platform 9 and 3/4, which was really bound to happen sooner or later.

“The palm extended in welcome:

Look! for you

I have unclenched my fist.”

 

James grimaces as his mum asks for the thirteenth time if he’s sure he hasn’t forgotten anything, and he tries to reassure her as quickly as possible. The train is starting to become crowded with students, after all, and Dad must need to get back to the Ministry. These past few months have been unusually buys -- James hadn’t been sure Dad would be able to see him off for sure until that morning, which makes him all the more fiercely glad that he is here. Mum gives him a weepy smile, and James dares to hope that he’s been successful, but then she starts in on letter-writing and the importance of the daily consumption of vegetables. He glances up at Dad, trying to put as much despair into his eyes as is humanly possible.

It must have worked, because Dad swiftly enters the conversation to rescue him. “Dear,” he starts, placing a hand on Mum’s shoulder, “perhaps we’d best finish up saying goodbye now. We wouldn’t want the train to leave without him, would we? At this rate, I don’t know if they’ll even have a seat for him!” When Mum rubs at her eyes and nods, he gallantly presents his handkerchief to her before kneeling down in front of James.

“Take good care of yourself, okay, James?” he says seriously. “Your mother and I are very excited for you, you know. Don’t let her hysterics fool you. Do remember to write, though, you know how she worries. What else, what else? Make good choices, make friends, don’t beat anyone up . . . oh!” he suddenly exclaims, straightening and patting his pockets. “Hold on, I’ve got something for you.”

He fishes around in his pockets a while longer until he pulls out two small brown parcels and brandishes them about. (James wishes desperately that his trousers had Enlargement Charms on the pockets, but Mum always says that she’d like to limit the mess James brings into the house when she can.) “Here they are! Just in case you ever get bored at school. Wait until you arrive to open them, all right?”

James nods seriously, already debating whether to just open them on the train or not. He thinks he can smell the familiar stench of Dungbombs coming from one of the packages, but the other is still a mystery. Before he knows it, he’s embraced by both his parents and shepherded onto the train. Gripped by the sudden realization that this is it, this is what leaving home is, he keeps moving forward until his trunk catches on one of the steps, making him stumble out of his reverie. Unfortunately, he also stumbles into another person, sending them tumbling to the floor.

“Excuse you,” a voice drawls, and James can’t help but think that someone looking down their nose at you is much less effective when said person is lying on the ground in the least dignified way possible. Oh, but that voice rubs him the wrong way. Who does he think he is, exactly? It’s not like James meant to trip. Honestly, some people . . . His hand clenches, briefly, and he stands up properly, shrugging.

“Sorry, mate,” he replies, extending a hand to help the other boy up. “Do you wanna go find a compartment?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think I'd be the same scattered sort of parent James' dad is. Thanks much for reading, concrit always welcome, is that even an abbreviation anyone uses? Anyway. I'll post the next chapter in just a tick.


	4. God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is Christmas, chess, and only two Gryffindor first-years staying for the holidays.

“The gregarious

and mild-tempered never know

each other by name:

creatures who make friends are shy

and liable to anger.”

 

Sirius walks into the Common Room and glares daggers at the now-familiar back of Remus Lupin’s head. It’s practically all he’s seen of the boy since Christmas holidays had started and left the two of them by far the youngest who’d stayed in Gryffindor. Lupin had taken to sitting and reading in one of the big, squashy armchairs by the fireplace that the older students normally claimed, and the chair’s wings effectively eclipsed his face, blocking him off from the outside world.

It takes most of the restraint Sirius possesses to keep from violently kicking the sofa in front of him. It had been a lousy day to begin with (nothing like a Howler in the morning), and Sirius wonders if staying at Hogwarts was such a good idea after all. Regulus was possibly the most irritating person on the planet, but at least he could be bothered to talk to him. Unlike certain fellow Gryffindors.

It must be an over-developed ego that keeps him away from everyone else, Sirius decides judiciously. Even shy people make friends by Christmas -- Longbottom managed it. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Lupin engage in a proper conversation with _anybody_. Well, there was that one time with Evans, if you want to be technical, but does small talk about the weather count, really? James had convinced him and Peter that they should all try to befriend Lupin, something about House solidarity, but whenever he tried to move the conversation a bit past pleasantries all he’d gotten for his trouble was a polite smile and an excuse to leave. At the time, they’d written it off as a bad cause, but now, after this awful holiday . . . this is personal.

He marches around to the front of the chair and rips the book out of Lupin’s hands without ceremony, tossing it to the ground without glancing at the title. Lupin lets out an indignant squawk, then meets his eyes properly. “Give that back,” he snaps, eyes remaining fixed on Sirius as though preparing for another attack.

Sirius smirks and opens his mouth, about to see if Lupin would be up for a game of chess of Gobstones or _something_ , but he’s cut off before he can make a sound.

“You heard me, give it back,” Lupin bites out, even tetchier than before. Sirius hadn’t thought it possible. “I don’t know where you think you get off, tossing other people’s belongings about, but --” Lupin’s eyes go wide as he sees Sirius kick the book across the room just to spite him.

He takes advantage of the lull in Lupin’s tirade to explain himself. Lupin’s looking like he’s about to throw a punch. “Listen, I just wanted to see if you wanted to play chess or something. I mean, it’s pretty much just the two of us, and I’m slowly going out of my mind with boredom . . .”

“I’m not just here for your amusement,” Remus replies hotly, but then he deflates and sighs. “Yeah, all right. Chess is good. You have a set?”

“Um, yeah,” Sirius says, nodding vaguely. He hadn’t thought that would actually work. “They’re in the dorm,” he adds, before leaving to go get them.

Lupin is there waiting for him when he comes back, which he also hadn’t really expected. He’s pleased to see that Lupin is an okay chess player, even if the pieces refuse to trust him, and it ends up being a pretty good game, as chess goes.

The next day, when he comes back into the Common Room, he hears Lupin’s book close gently before Lupin turns to look at him briefly (hopefully?) before turning back to the fire. Sirius grins, because it’s progress, isn’t it? With luck, he and _Remus_ will be properly friends by the end of the week. Maybe staying at Hogwarts wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid I haven't got much to say here, but it seemed wrong to leave it without a note. So yeah. Here's chapter 4. I quite like it, reading over it again. I've never really believed the whole they-all-met-on-the-train-and-all-happened-to-be-Gryffindors-AND-best-friends bit, myself, so I guess this is my take on what might've happened. Yeah. Thanks for reading -- initially, these little vignettes had only been seen by two other people, so it's fun having a slightly larger audience.


	5. When You Are Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After figuring out Remus is a werewolf, the other Marauders have some questions. Well, a lot of questions.

“Thoughts of his own death,

Like the distant roll

Of thunder at a picnic.”

 

“So, mate,” begins James, once the four are settled on Remus’ bed, “we know you’re a werewolf and all . . .”

“But we don’t really know what that means. For you, that is,” Sirius continues.

Remus, forgetting himself, chuckles – there are times when he’s convinced that James and Sirius are an old married couple in disguise. But he sobers quickly after processing what they’d asked. “I’m not sure I understand you,” he says carefully, hoping to delay the conversation he had been anticipating with morbid curiosity ever since the three boys had pulled open his curtains after lights out and told him that they knew everything. At the time he’d been too startled, and, as the night progressed, anxious to think much of it. But he’d come to realize that they knew nothing at all.

“Well . . .” Peter ventures tentatively, “we came up with a list. Of questions.”

“When?” That would have taken a fair bit of forethought, especially since they’d managed to keep it from him.

“The last full moon,” Sirius replies quietly. “If it makes you uncomfortable, it’s all right, you don’t have to –”

“I will,” says Remus flatly. “If we don’t settle this now you’ll just be even more curious. Next time you have questions, though, try the library first. ‘Ask three before me,’” he adds wryly.

“What’s that?” Peter asks, confused.

“Just something a teacher of mine used to say, it doesn’t matter. So tell me, what are your most pressing questions?”

“Is silver poisonous to you?” James asks after an awkward silence, assuming leadership of the group without a second thought.

In response, Remus reaches out and fiddles with the silver button on the sleeve of Sirius’ pajamas. “See,” he says, showing them his fingers, “no burns.”

“So the silver-bullet-through-the-heart thing is a myth, then?” adds Sirius.

“Well, I imagine a bullet through the heart would kill just about anything, silver or not. But I’d rather not find out, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Er . . .” Peter splutters. “Do you have an extra-keen sense of smell normally?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I don’t really remember smelling . . . before. So maybe? That’s a bad answer, I know.”

“Well, can you track people by their scent?” presses Sirius. “And what about super-speed and super-strength?”

“I can tell if someone’s been there recently, I guess, if I know how they smell. But it has to be pretty recent, I think, a matter of minutes. And as for super-speed and super-strength, that’d be a no. Don’t I always lose whenever you guys decide we should race out to the lake and back?”

“Every time,” Sirius laughs.

“Do you feel different leading up to the full moon?” James asks gently, worried that the other two had been a bit too brusque.

“I’ve noticed I get headaches more frequently, and I’m a lot hungrier. But that’s about it, there’s no ‘pull of the moon’ or anything. I mean, I suppose I’m tired, too, but that’s from staying up trying to get ahead on the classes I’ll miss.”

“What exactly happens every full moon?” probes Sirius. The other two cringed. For all his fine upbringing, sometimes the boy had no tact.

“For me, personally, or the transformation in general?” he answers stiffly.

“For you.”

“Well, then.” He takes a slow breath. “An hour before sunset, I go to the Hospital Wing. Madame Pomfrey gives me a few potions, sort of preventative measures for the pain, and then we head down to the Whomping Willow. She enchants a stick to prod the knot on the tree to freeze it, and we head in. There’s a tunnel that leads to the Shack. After making sure that everything is in order, she leaves, locking up behind her, and I wait for the moon to rise. And then I transform.” He waves his hand airily, as if it’s nothing to be remarked upon.

“But what do you do in there all night?”

So much for that plan. “Try to get out, for a while. This is mostly speculation, given the state of the Shack – I don’t really remember the transformations. But from what Madame Pomfrey tells me, after searching for prey and finding none, the wolf sort of . . . turns on itself. That’s what most of the scars are from, since wounds inflicted by a werewolf don’t heal properly.”

“Cor,” James breathes. “You did this to yourself? Isn’t there anything we can do?”

“Well, there’s no cure.” Remus laughs dryly. “And I’d hurt you, as a werewolf. Most likely bite you. So no.”

“We’ll figure it out, mate,” James resolves. “One way or another. Surely this takes a toll on you? I mean, my parents say _I_ give them gray hairs.”

“Yes, I’m sure I’ll go prematurely gray and have wrinkles at the age of 25 or something.” He coughs awkwardly. Being a werewolf did tend to speed up the aging process, even if the main reason the mortality rate was high was because of those werewolves who were careless, killed or bit someone, and were then executed. “Any other questions?”

James shoots the other two a look. “No, I don’t think so. Sorry to bother you. You could use some sleep, after all.”

“Psh, Sirius is the one who needs his beauty rest,” he scoffs. “Good night, guys.”

 


	6. Sudden Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James figures out he maybe sort-of likes Evans; McGonagall transfigures herself into a cat; there is a sneeze; there is also plotting.

“Brashly triumphant,

Over-dogmatic, a sneeze

Asserts without proof

Some ritual connection

Between breathing and loving.”

 

James glances covertly around the Transfiguration classroom as Professor McGonagall continues to lecture on the process of registering to be an Animagus. Frank Longbottom is chewing on the end of his quill, D’Eath-Evans’-friend is tracing patterns on her desk, Sirius is off in space, Peter barely looks awake, and the Ravenclaws all just look annoyingly studious. The only sound besides McGonagall’s _dulcet_ tones is the scratching of their quills, accompanied by those of Remus and Evans.

They’re the only ones taking notes, and at this point, James can’t find it in himself to be surprised. It’s a natural instinct of Ravenclaws, after all, and he gave up trying to decipher Evans’ odd habits last week when Sirius nagged him for looking at her too often in class. And that left Remus, always the bookworm. James vaguely wonders whether, if Remus were to become an Animagus, he could spend the full moons in his Animagus form rather than as a transformed werewolf. Or would his Animagus be a transformed werewolf anyways? Could someone’s Animagus be a magical creature? Intrigued, he scribbles a note on a spare piece of parchment – “Animagus > wolf?”

Sirius, who sits beside him, suddenly turns to look accusingly at him, probably thinking he’s betrayed the cause by taking notes of his own. Peter and Remus, ahead of the two, remain oblivious. He rolls his eyes, then passes Sirius the note, slowly. The last thing James needs is for McGonagall to detect movement out of the corner of her eye and catch him – it’ll be tricky explaining to Remus if she reads the note out loud. Or to anyone, for that matter.

He watches Sirius’ face intently as his friend scans the note, suddenly worrying that he was a massive idiot for even thinking of it. Nevertheless, Sirius’ face remains impassive, his natural state despite his general ebullience in public. James assumes it’s a Black habit. Then Sirius catches his eye, winks, and slips the note back to him. “Maybe. Research/kitchens tonight?” is scrawled on the back.

James grins; he isn’t a moron after all. He and Sirius can figure out the details when class is over, primarily whether to raid Remus’ werewolf books or try the Library first. Both will have to take place under the cover of night if they want Remus to remain ignorant of their plan, since he will no doubt inconvenience them. They had tried to change the laws when they had first heard about his lycanthropy, writing letters-to-the-editor for the _Daily Prophet_ , but Remus had burned them before they could be sent. However, James is sure that everything else will arrange itself. Remus has to sleep sometime, and they have nothing to fear from Peter. He might even be useful, if not necessary.

Suddenly, the room falls absolutely silent. Shaken from his still-jumbled thoughts, James looks away from Sirius’ tapping foot and up to the front of the class where McGonagall is standing. She is nowhere to be seen. Doing a double take, James sees, perched on the professor’s desk, a tabby cat with square markings around its eyes. He barely has time to register that the cat is in fact  _McGonagall_ and that he is in fact allergic to cats before he lets out a loud sneeze.

The class titters. Pleased with this reaction, he grins broadly at Evans, who was turned around in her seat at the front of the class to glare reproachfully at him. Then somewhere in the sky the clouds part and she is struck with sun, a vision in red and green and gold. All thoughts of the night’s plans fall away, and in that moment, James decides that if he’s honest, he really rather fancies Evans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, sorry for the lazy updating. I have possibly been working three jobs this week, but I'll be down to two next week, so that will be good. I hope you've enjoyed this latest installment -- posting it, I am remembering why I regret writing it in present tense. Oh well. Live and learn.
> 
> Oh, also -- I wanted to explain Alice's last name, D'Eath. It's a very real last name (at least according to some brief internet research), but the theory behind it is more or less that Alice's maiden name had to have been pretty awful, if she took Longbottom as her last name.


	7. Mirror, Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprising no one, Remus has some self-esteem issues.

“Fear and Vanity

Incline us to imagine

We have caused a face

To turn away which merely

Happened to look somewhere else.”

 

A flat, “morning, Moony,” is, lamentably, what jostles Remus from his finally peaceful sleep. It’s only been two days since the full moon, and he’s just starting to regain his circadian rhythms. His old alarm clock goes off shrilly moments later, and Remus has to admit it’s time to pull himself out of bed.

“Nice alliteration!” James calls to Sirius from the mirror, making sure that if his hair refused to lie flat, it will at least look perfectly disheveled. He’s been even more ridiculous with his grooming than usual since he got it into his head that he fancies Lily.

And Lily is a perfectly lovely girl to fancy, Remus reflects, even if he doesn’t really see the appeal – smart, pretty (he supposes), witty, and more than a match for James. But this . . . _preening_ , he thinks distastefully, is getting to be a bit much. He and Sirius share commiserating glances behind their friend’s back as James pounds at the bathroom door and shouts for Peter to, “Hurry up in there!” For his part, Remus avoids mirrors when possible – he needs no reminder of who and what he is, thank you very much.

As it turns out, the only reason they had to get up at all was so that, as Sirius proclaims loudly in the Common Room, “They wouldn’t waste this fine Saturday morning!” Remus rolls his eyes, but follows the boys down to the lake regardless. Sirius has a point, after all; there isn’t a cloud in the sky, the water and its little whitecaps sparkle happily, and the wind in the leaves of the oak tree he’s sitting beneath is rather pleasant.

He leans back and reaches again for his book, _Le Petit Prince*_ , a gift from his _grandmère**_ , Nanette Lupin, who still lives in ignorance of what he is since Lyall hadn't wanted to give her a heart attack. She sent it during _Pâques***_ and it has quickly become one of his favorite books, on par with _Fahrenheit_ _451_. It isn’t uncommon that days with Sirius felt like the conversations between the pilot and the prince. Sirius is very good at acting like a child, perhaps making up for lost time, but so often he forgets that Remus can’t shake the overwhelming weight of being _une grande personne****_. But, he thinks ruefully, _c’est comme ça*****_.

“Oi, Remus!” shouts Sirius. “Come swim with us!”

“I think I’ll sit this one out,” he calls back as mildly as he can.

“The water’s warm,” James cajoles.

“I’m fine right here,” he repeats, firmer this time. It works – Peter recognizes the tone that means Remus will brook no discussion and distracts the boys by splashing them in the face. Sirius gives him a funny look, as James splashes Peter back, but that is the end of that.

Remus breathes a sigh of relief. It’s bad enough that everyone has to see his scarred face, often with bags under his eyes. The whispers have subsided since first year, not least because of the protection being one of the Marauders has afforded him, but it’s fairly clear that no one has ever found his appearance particularly appealing.

Though he’d never vocalize the thought (he hates pity, especially the indulgence of self-pity that this is), he would rather like to be worth a compliment, or maybe just a second glance from someone other than James, Sirius, or Peter. The first two are already being fawned over by girls (excepting Lily, who had more sense than the majority of them), and while Peter has to work a little harder to get a girl’s attention, at least no one has ever flinched after looking at him.

So no, he will not take off his shirt and reveal all the gashes and bites littering his torso just to go swimming. He’s happy here. Resolutely, he re-opens his book to a random page and begins reading about baobabs and sheep and ephemeral flowers.

 

 

*  _The Little Prince_

_**_ grandmother

*** Easter

**** a grown-up

***** It's like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe this is overdone, but it seemed worth writing about. More notes in the next chapter, I guess.


	8. Conquering Heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a prank of debatable levels of epic-ness.

“Patriots? Little boys,

obsessed by Bigness,

Big Pricks, Big Money, Big Bangs.”

 

“Shh!” Remus hisses, clapping a hand over Peter’s mouth. Peter grimaces. He’d barely giggled. And he can’t see why they’re all taking this so seriously, anyway. It’s just Dungbombs in the Slytherin dorms, for Merlin’s sake.

Sirius peers around the corner, then beckons them all forward. “James, why can’t we just use the cloak?” he whinges. “Not that I don’t love darting around the corridors as much as the next bloke, but it’s so much more work . . .”

“We’ve been over this, Sirius,” James admonishes. “We don’t fit under the cloak any more, remember? We’re third-years now. Disembodied calves aren’t really any better than our whole bodies. At least this way we can lie more convincingly if we’re found out of bed by the new guy, wosshisname . . .”

“Filch?” Remus supplies.

“Yeah, him.”

Peter stifles a giggle. Disembodied calves? What about their feet? He does miss the comfort that being invisible provides, though. It’s a shame they’ve gotten too big for it. He had been so sure that they’d make it to fifth year, but James and Sirius have been growing like weeds and Peter’s been growing too, though perhaps more out than up, if he’s really honest about it. Remus has yet to hit his growth spurt, but Peter is fairly sure that it’s coming, and Peter will be left as the shortest of the group.

“All right,” Remus murmurs, checking his watch. “They should be going off in three . . . two . . . one . . .” The four of them pause, listening intently. There’s a muffled boom, and Peter starts to hear the Slytherins pouring out of their dormitory.

He tugs at James’ sleeve. “We should get going,” he whispers hurriedly. “Don’t you hear them coming?”

James cocks his head. “Quite right. Come on, lads.” They follow him through a stairwell Peter had never noticed before, and soon enough they’re back in their dorm, safe and sound. He breathes a little sigh of relief, letting go of anxiety he hadn’t realized he was holding on to.

Sirius rifles around under James’ bed for a while and emerges with four bottles of Butterbeer and dust in his hair. James grins broadly, and Peter finds himself smiling too. James is like that. “Cheers, lads,” Sirius exclaims, tossing each of them a bottle.

“Another prank pulled, another day of Slytherin-vanquishing,” James sighs contentedly. “We shall go down in the annals of history some day.”

“What, for a couple of Dungbombs?” Remus drawls.

“ _For the cause,_ Remus, don’t be boring,” moans James in response, cradling his head in his hands.

Remus pats James’ back in what looks like an awkward attempt at comfort. “Sure, James,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “History.”

Peter can’t help but agree with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know, I'm just really fond of the idea of Peter being super jaded and cynical, at least by comparison to the rest of the Marauders. Also Filch apparently came to Hogwarts between 1971 and 1973, if I'm remembering right, so he had to be new at one point or another, right? Thoughts on plausibility?
> 
> Anywho, looks like updates will be about weekly from now on. The next chapter I have to write is The Prank, which is intimidating, but it will get done. Hope you're enjoying these!


	9. Birds and Bees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James' mother decides not to put off The Talk any longer.

“Father at the wars,

Mother, tongue-tied with shyness,

struggling to tell him

the Facts of Life he dared not

tell her he knew already.”

James fidgets on the bed, running his fingers over the careful stitching of his quilt. He really does not want to be here. Any minute now, Mum is going to walk through that door and then they’ll have The Talk until James’ body gives up and dies of embarrassment. He eyes the window, wondering if it might be a viable route of escape. But no, Mum planted rose bushes beneath his room ages ago. Suddenly he realizes that his mother is much cannier than he had thought.

There’s a timid knock at his door, which James staunchly ignores. Whoever said that there wasn’t any point in postponing the inevitable was a liar. She doesn’t go away, though -- a voice that sounds suspiciously like Remus’ whispers, _Told you so . . ._ \-- and not a moment later she opens the door anyway and perches on the end of the bed, as far from James as humanly possible.

“Now, it isn’t looking like your father will be home for a while . . .” she starts hesitantly. James barely stops himself from scoffing -- he’s well aware that he will only see Dad properly before school starts up again if he’s very, very lucky. Dad’s undercover in the north. James can put the pieces together. “But we were talking via Floo last night, and we both decided that we shouldn’t put this off any longer.” Yes, she had told him all this at breakfast. Well, without the bit about Dad. “Obviously, he’d like to be here -- it’d probably be less awful for all of us -- but as it is . . . we’ll have to make do.”

All James can do is nod. He wonders if he oughtn’t tell her that he’s pretty much guessed what she’s going to say. The four of them had done some research after the time they had been running from Filch and ducked into a deserted classroom only to find it . . . not so deserted. That had been traumatic. But also intriguing, and, well, curiosity killed the cat and all. James supposes they’re only the wiser for it. Remus had been horribly shy, and Peter giggly, but between him and Sirius they’d figured it out, for the most part. What more can his mother have to add?

Upon reflection, though, explaining this knowledge to Mum sounds infinitely more painful than sitting through her awkward attempts. He can just imagine the questions. At least this way he can block out the worst of it. He’s pretty good at looking like he’s paying attention, after all, though he’d never thought this skill would come in handy outside of school. Just goes to show that it’s worth it to be prepared.

Mum gathers herself and takes a deep breath. “Er -- James, when two people love each other very much . . .” James steels himself and waits for this fresh hell to pass.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dunno, I mean, with all the deserted classrooms people spend time making out in in fic, you'd think poor kids running from Filch would run into them often enough.


	10. Aubade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dawn at the Shrieking Shack.

“Needing above all

silence and warmth, we produce

brutal cold and noise.”

 

Remus wakes up to the creaking of the Shack above him and immediately wishes he hadn’t stirred. Gone are the days when the wolf only left him feeling like a giant bruise (albeit a bruise with several bumps and grazes). Flesh wounds are a lot more difficult to deal with. He stifles a groan as he tries to stand up, not sure why this instinctive self-silencing persists when there’s no one around to hear him. Maybe it’s like the tree falling in the forest. It’s probably too early for these kinds of metaphors.

Normally, he’d try to drag himself back to the Whomping Willow, at the very least, but it’s not seeming like an option today. He does manage to grab his wand, though, and he Summons his robe and clothes from the wardrobe, spelled shut during the night but open now that the sun is up. Putting them on isn’t worth the effort, but he can at least sort of drape them over himself, which will hopefully stave off the worst of the cold. It gets so drafty, it’s hard to remember that the Shack isn’t actually haunted by anything other than Remus himself. He might be able to staunch some of the bleeding, come to think of it. That’d be good.

From the feel of it, last night was probably pretty bad. It figures -- he’d gotten into a bit of a row with Sirius about _boundaries_ and _personal space_ at lunch and had been off-kilter the rest of the day. The wolf was irritatingly good at picking up on human emotions, even if it ignored any non-hungry, bunny-loving thoughts Remus tried to send its way. He supposes that the wolf is better with pure emotions, like anger or sadness, because they’re that much more instinctual than the concrete thoughts he might formulate. None of the research he’s done supports this theory, but then, none of what he’s found has been particularly helpful. Or accurate. Madam Pomfrey mentioned last week that a new book was coming out next year, though, one that was rumored to have actually been written by a werewolf. It’ll be better, won’t it?

He does miss the Library, even if many of the books are outdated or ridiculously esoteric or so dusty that he’s constantly sneezing. The speedier his recovery, the faster he can get back to studying there as usual. Madam Pomfrey is wonderful, she truly is, but Remus can’t help but hate the Hospital Wing. Something about how clinical everything is sets his teeth on edge. There’s also the steady stream of sick students to contend with, more than Remus had really thought possible. It’s not _that_ large of a school. But still they come with their runny noses and sprained ankles and headaches and suspected cases of spattergroit and Remus can hardly begrudge them Madam Pomfrey’s care. It’s just that they’re so loud . . .

James and Sirius are among the throng of patients a fair bit of the time, between Quidditch and all their pranks. They seem to take Remus’ “absences” as license to do the riskiest stunt they can come up with, since no one’s around to tell them _no, stop being stupid, you’ll blow yourselves up_. You’d think the continued injuries would stop them, but you’d be wrong. Peter, at least, has generally had the sense to stand back, which is the only preventative measure needed most of the time. Why James and Sirius haven’t managed it is something of an enigma, and scolding never helps. Still, the company is nice. Not that he wants his friends injured. But all the same. They visit, of course, but . . . it’s a nice surprise, is all.

He sighs. Madam Pomfrey should be there soon -- she’s normally prompt, given the conveniently predictable timing of his . . . condition. All he really wants is to find his favorite corner of the library, where the sun streaming through the windows lands on the dust just so, curl up with a book (any book, really), and never leave. Possibly for food, but he thinks he could talk the house elves into bringing him some. That’ll just have to wait, though. Remus thinks he can pick out Madam Pomfrey’s footsteps echoing from the passageway over all the shuddering of the Shack. Maybe it’s the wood contracting in the dry November wind. He bites back a yawn and tries to summon the energy to face the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all. I'm heading out of town for a week, so obviously instead of packing I'm updating this instead. Still, hope you enjoy!


	11. Antebellum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War looms, met with excitement and cynicism.

“War-time. English schoolboys

killing the white butterflies

they called Frenchmen.”

 

James and Sirius are transfixed by the Prewetts’ tales of the brewing war, and Remus is paying attention dutifully if not avidly, but Peter can’t find it in himself to care. War seems like a lot more trouble than it’s worth, really. Either way, the two sides will have to compromise. Couldn’t they just skip the war with all its danger and bloodshed and go ahead to the part where they come up with an agreement and no one gets hurt? Honestly, he doubts how much further this will go -- the Minister and You-Know-Who were meeting in the next month, according to his great-uncle Ethelred. Surely that’s a good sign.

The only upshot of this constant dreary talk of the coming war is that James and Sirius have been inspired to new heights of prankdom by their desire to take revenge on the Slytherins. Peter lacks that fervor, but he’s good at making himself useful so that he rarely misses out on the fun. He has to remind himself sometimes that fun is all that it is, that a strike against the Slytherins really isn’t a strike against these so-called Death Eaters. After all, if it were, Evans would probably join in instead of scolding them. Well, scolding James.

He can see her now, a little ways further down the lake from their tree, trying and failing to look as though she isn’t eavesdropping, with her eyes darting left and right, but never focusing on MacDonald long enough to show any signs of paying attention. Fortunately, MacDonald’s eyes are too glued to James’ windswept hair and possibly his loosened tie to care that Evans’ focus isn’t on her either. Peter sees quite a bit, if he does say so himself.

He wonders, though, if James and Sirius’ interest in the war will continue. They do tend to go through phases, and Peter likes getting caught up in the whirl of it all, moving from one passion to another without having to care much about anything himself. Although he knows that in all likelihood this . . . activism is a passing fancy, he’s fully prepared to go along with it as long as the others stay interested. Remus seems more invested in this one, which might help. Sirius will make it fun, he knows, and James will care enough for the whole lot of them. It’ll work out, one way or another.

“Oh,” one of them (Fabian?) adds, “did we tell you about the attacks that happened down in Berkshire? Bloody awful, you’ll never believe it . . .”

Peter settles in. He can tell he’ll be waiting for a long time to be done with all this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like cycnical!Peter is my one original thought, and I'm absurdly happy with it, even if it's possibly just as stupid as a double-decker couch. More end notes to follow.


	12. Otherwise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Black introspection.

“Years before doctors

had invented the jargon,

he knew from watching

his maiden aunts that illness

could be psychosomatic.”

 

Contrary to popular belief, Sirius’ childhood had been a happy one, as childhoods went. He and Regulus had played hide-and-seek in the seemingly endless halls of No. 12, Grimmauld Place, occasionally hunted by Mummy, or, more likely, a governess. Where other boys might have played with the neighborhood kids, Sirius and Regulus kept to themselves. What more could they need? Sometimes Mummy’s friends would come over with their children, or vice versa. The variety was nice, but the other children were never quite the same age as either of them, and somehow playing with these strangers felt more like making allowances than making friends.

The parts that Sirius remembers as being the worst were the Christmas parties. Forced to dress up in the most starched suits imaginable, he and Regulus were paraded in front of Mummy and Father’s snooty friends while their accomplishments of the year were listed with vague pride and sharper aggression. It was any child’s worst nightmare.

Still, it was only once a year, and now Sirius refuses to change out of his pajamas at Christmas, so it works out. Dinners were pleasant, even if Father was rarely there, and Sirius can’t remember wanting for anything. Admittedly, Kreacher often terrified him, but it was a bit like growing up with a particularly bad-tempered cat that hissed and bit whenever anyone tried to pet it -- not ideal, but manageable. And Regulus was an annoying berk (figures that Kreacher had liked him), but what kid brother wasn’t?

Of course, that happy childhood came to an abrupt end upon Sirius’ Sorting into Gryffindor. He wonders, sometimes, what would be different if he had been Sorted into Ravenclaw by some strange twist of fate, or even Hufflepuff. (Slytherin doesn’t bear thinking about.) Looking back, though, he can see the signs that he would have split from his family eventually anyway -- his Sorting only sped up the process. The signs are few, but clearly pointed.

There was the whole business with Uncle Alphard, of course. The black sheep of the family, to make the obvious pun, Alphard was nevertheless permitted at all family gatherings despite the shaking heads and consternated whispers that followed him. He’d even sometimes show up unannounced at No. 12, Grimmauld Place -- those were the best days. Some people had uncles who travelled to far-off lands and brought home exotic gifts. Sirius had Uncle Alphard, whose far-off lands were all in the Muggle world, as near as the London just outside their door and as far as Indonesia and Peru, and his gifts were Muggle artifacts that would make Arthur Weasley jealous. The toaster had always been a favorite of Sirius’, though the record player was a close second.

Alphard was the only grown-up Sirius knew that treated him as an adult, though, and Sirius adored him for it. He spoke to Sirius about pro-Muggle politics in a way that no one had ever spoken to him about the omnipresent Pureblood supremacist sentiments, and in that way Sirius learned not necessarily to believe him (the odds that the rest of his family was wrong were slim), but to respect him and the opinions he held.

They didn’t burn him off the tree until the summer after Sirius’ first year at Hogwarts. Sirius was forced to watch, along with most of the Black family, as Father did the honors. It was a surprisingly solemn affair. There was no shouting or crying, only the somber intonation of words about “libertine ideas” and “the corruption of youth.” The loss of his family hit Alphard stronger than Sirius had expected. These days, he’s slowed down quite a bit, doesn’t travel so much. Sirius hasn’t seen him in years, between school and his summers spent quarantined at home (as if that will change who he’s become), but they do keep up a correspondence, however infrequent, and that has to be enough.

Also telling is the fact that he had always hated Narcissa and Bellatrix with the passion of a thousand fiery suns, but thought Andromeda was one of the coolest people he’d ever met. She didn’t care what anyone thought of her, and one summer dyed her hair purple to prove it. She also helped him and Regulus put on plays of their own creation when she came over, which actually sounds really dorky now that he thinks about it, but was awesome at the time. He hated Narcissa and Bellatrix because they were mean and snotty, but he was hardly surprised by the realization that they were made up of pure evil instead of flesh and blood like everyone else. It also figured that the two people he liked best out of all his family were the rebels, just like he’s turning out to be. He likes that title, rebel. It sounds . . . daring.

But then there was Father’s treatment of Mummy -- cold and absent at best, vicious and demanding at worst. As Sirius and Regulus got older and older, Father spent more and more time away at the Ministry, or simply “out.” Meanwhile, Mummy spent more and more time shut in her rooms with only Kreacher for company. The rotation of governesses stopped as well, as per Mummy’s request. At the time, this seemed perfectly normal -- as he and Regulus got older, they needed less looking after, that was all. And Mummy had always had a delicate constitution. Going away to school had made it painfully clear that this was not how it went, not for most people.

Sirius imagines that he would’ve had that same revelation no matter what House he had been Sorted into. Some things, he’s found, are universal. And he likes to think that figuring out that his father was wrong would have made him hate the Pureblood supremacy he stood for by extension, but this is the point on which he is least certain. He ignores it most of the time.

It isn’t that Sirius isn’t glad he was Sorted into Gryffindor. He’s met the best friends of his life here, friends that have somehow more than replaced the family he’s lost. Still, he wonders whether he would still be good if those around him weren’t so full of conviction. House isn’t everything -- he knows this better than anyone. Alphard had been a Slytherin, after all, and he turned out all right. But it’s in his blood. Without that definitive split, would he have been strong enough to disagree?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the pun in the summary. And the chapter. I couldn't resist. Sorry for the slightly late update, but I hope you enjoy these two chapters! Feel free to leave concrit if you see something weird, or just want to talk about characters or something . . .?


	13. The Savage Society

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius tries to parse the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. James tries to help.

“Everyone thinks

‘I am the most important

Person at present.’

The sane remember to add:

‘important, I mean, to me.’”

 

When Sirius returns to his four-poster bed in the Gryffindor dorms, he is panting slightly from climbing up all the stairs, but it _feels_ as though he’s let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. Peter, he thinks, is having a similar experience in the kitchen; Remus, of course, in the library; and then James, having less of a homecoming than the rest of them, is sat down in the Common Room, basking in the attention of people other than his parents. Through the sense of relief that is currently flooding his system, he is vaguely and fervently grateful that he isn’t an only child -- he may not like Regulus much these days, but he would like his parents’ concentrated attention even less. As the eldest the pressure is stifling and claustrophobia-inducing enough, but as the sole heir it would be crippling.

It’s probably for the best that Bellatrix isn’t an only child, either -- her ego is massive enough without being the sole vehicle of her parents’ hopes and dreams. Now that he thinks on it, though, there hasn’t been an only child in the House of Black for generations. So that’s another failed theory as to the insanity that is his family.

Dodgy breeding is looking most likely at this point, to be honest. Inbreeding isn’t exactly uncommon in pureblood families, but the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black has taken it a bit far by any standard. _Toujours pur_ , indeed - more like _toujours fou_. Sirius tries to content himself with the fact that his birth was not technically his own doing.

James bursts into the dorm all aflutter because Evans apparently glanced at him, which, Sirius must agree, is definitely the most exciting thing that’s happened all day. Probably this year they’ll get married, too. But he’s learned by now that in these cases it’s best to simply smile and nod, so that is what he does. Then, bored with that tactic, he abruptly changes the subject for good measure.

“James,” he asks loudly, refusing to stir from his dramatic pose across his bed, “do you think power necessarily corrupts, given enough time?”

“I don’t like to think so,” James answers fairly, sitting down. “I mean, look at old Dumbles -- he’s been in power for who knows how long, and will be probably forever, and he hasn’t gone bad yet, has he?” He shrugs. “Bit of a deep question, that. Any reason?”

James always had been an annoyingly perceptive bastard, damn him. There goes subtlety. “Just trying to figure out what’s wrong with my family. Inbreeding seems obvious, of course, but also a bit of a cop-out, so, you know, the corruption of power seemed as good a guess as any.”

James hums non-committally. “Well, in-breeding certainly isn’t doing you any favors . . . but it is too particular a brand of crazy to be just that, right? I mean, inbreeding may have turned King George 3 mad as a hatter, but not . . .”

“Evil?” Sirius suggests darkly. “My thoughts exactly. There’s just this . . . it’s like pureblood mania . . . but even more specific . . .”

“Self-obsession, maybe?” James tries. “I can’t think of the term. Like slightly more generalized egotism. It’s like you all --” he cannot see Sirius’ wince “-- think you’re Merlin’s gift to Wizardkind, the most noble and most ancient and the most _important_ , and the thought that anyone might think otherwise just doesn’t occur. So as long as you maintain that illusion, everything’s fine. Well, more or less. But of course, as the feudal nature of the Wizarding World slowly but surely breaks down, people are less and less willing to kowtow to nutters like Bellatrix, and as they feel their control slipping they grip all the tighter and tighter, getting crazier and crazier in the process. So I think you might be onto something, with the power thing, but it’s not so much about power itself, just that it reflects importance, right?”

Sometimes Sirius forgets that James is actually bloody brilliant. Other times, like this, he is filled with a frankly shocking amount of faith that his friend will be able to achieve pretty much anything he puts his mind to. No one has ever been able to put into words just how Sirius feels about his family, not even himself, and James had just rattled it off with the same ease as he listed Quidditch scores. Sirius is at once annoyed and grateful and fond, and that’s just one more thing he doesn’t know how to say. Still, James is probably waiting for a response.

“Er, yeah,” he says awkwardly. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

James stands up and claps him on the shoulder. “I’m gonna go rescue Moony from a dusty grave -- d’you wanna come?”

“Sure.” It’s time Sirius shook this funk, anyway. “Are we gonna swing by the kitchens and grab Peter, too?”

“Eh, why not?” James pushes the door open, then pauses. “You know you’re not like them, right?”

Humming is a stupid small noise but it’s all he’s got.

“Good.” James opens the door fully. “So, where to first, the library or kitchens?”

“Library,” Sirius says decisively. “Can’t bring cake in there.” And he’d rather see Remus, but for once there are words he could manage to say but chooses not to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> James does not know this but his philosophies are vaguely similar to Thorstein Veblen's theories of the savage society, leisure class, and conspicuous consumption. Vaguely.


	14. The Prank

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everything falls apart.

“When we do evil,

we and our victims

are equally bewildered.”

 

When Sirius gleefully tells James what he’s done, James’ first reaction is to grin and agree that it was brilliant. Then the reality of the situation sinks in, and brilliant is replaced with unspeakably stupid. James wants to shout at Sirius’ still-laughing face and make him understand what a terrible thing he’s done, make him feel the nausea that is currently making itself very known in James’ stomach, but he doesn’t think there’s time. He has to find Snape and head him off. But then who knows where Snape is? It’s almost moonrise -- with his luck, Snape’s down there already. It’s times like these when a map of everyone in the castle would be really useful. As it is his, his best bet is to get down to the Shack before him. He looks at Sirius, who is starting to look more and more stricken by the second. Good. He takes off running, leaving Sirius rooted to the ground. He’ll take the back way.

He runs past the one-eyed witch, up the stairs, and past the girls’ bathroom until he finds the mirror he’s looking for. They’ve used this tunnel ever since they managed to become Animagi at the beginning of term. It had taken a lot of individual work over the summer (encouraging Peter via letter was not the most efficient method, it turned out), but this year they had finally been able to implement their plan of keeping Remus company during the full moons. They’re pretty sure neither Dumbledore nor Pomfrey know about it, and even if they do it’s much easier to skulk through the dark corridors unseen than be out on the grounds in full moonlight. They only downside is that they -- well, James, really -- can’t get through when they’re transformed but so far it’s worked out fine.

James tears down the tunnel, panting and wishing that his Quidditch skills transferred to slightly better stamina off a broomstick. When he’s Captain, there will be a new training regimen, that’s for sure. He comes up under the piano, wincing as the trapdoor hits the belly of the instrument. They should probably move that at some point.

Remus starts at the sounds of the piano and whirls around, naked and wild-eyed. He relaxes when he sees that it’s James, but seems confused as to why he’s alone. Normally they all come together, or not at all, if someone’s been particularly idiotic and gotten detention -- it’s all very new and they’re actually trying to be cautious for once in their lives and they’d been doing well, until tonight.

“Sirius told Snape how to get in,” James huffs out quickly. “I don’t know where he is, but I’m assuming he’s going to come down here tonight. Not sure how I’m going to get him to leave, but.” He shrugs. “And then we’ll go to Dumbledore, I’m sure. Ideally I won’t have to transform -- I don’t want Snape to ruin that, too.”

Remus somehow looks bewildered and shuttered and resigned all at once, and it’s probably the worst thing he’s ever seen, so James forces himself away and heads toward the main tunnel.

Reasoning with Snape ends up being about as effective as talking to Muggle inventions. Fortunately, Snape’s self-preservation instincts kick in when he hears Remus start to transform, and he turns tail and runs. James isn’t sure whether to stay with Remus or head up to Dumbledore now that the immediate crisis has passed. But then, knowing Snape as . . . intimately as he does, he’ll head straight to the Headmaster, so James had better be available, too. He rubs his eyes futilely, trying to muster up some energy so he isn’t running on adrenaline all night. Shaking his head, he walks up to Dumbledore’s office. He’s not sure how they’re going to get through this one.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, sorry it's been so long. I've more or less settled into college, so hopefully updates will be a little more regular. This was definitely the hardest chapter to write, and I'm not super thrilled with it, but at this point I'm calling good enough, so yeah. Hope you enjoy it, and thanks for putting up with me.
> 
> And yes, I decided that the collapsed tunnel originally led to the Shrieking Shack. The wiki says it leads to Hogsmeade, so I guess I fudged it, but really a stag is kind of a noticeable animal running across the grounds and canonically Dumbledore didn't know, so . . .


	15. Purgatory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of The Prank.

“Justice: permission to peck

a wee bit harder

than we have been pecked.”

 

Sirius comes to visit him in the infirmary the morning after, bringing James with him. Coward, Remus thinks viciously. James sets the books he brought at the foot of the bed like a peace offering before going back to stand next to Sirius. It’s all too silent and it smells like menthol. Remus doesn’t think he’s ever hurt this much in his life. And they’re still standing there, James vaguely beseeching, Sirius lost, and right now Remus doesn’t really care enough to deal with this. He lies down and stares at the blue curtain separating his bed from the next until he hears the footfalls that mean they must have left.

He kicks the books onto the floor. If he slants his eyes up, he can see the Sleeping Draught Madame Pomfrey always leaves on his bedside table. He’s never taken it before, but at this point all he wants is to sleep and not have to wake up. Grimly, he hoists himself up and knocks it all back in one go. It’s stronger than he anticipated. He curls in on himself and waits.

* * *

 

Sirius comes on hi own, the next day. Remus assumes it’s because James put him up to it. He stays sitting up this time, and feels Sirius should be grateful for it. They stare at each other for a while, neither willing to make the first move. Remus doesn’t feel particularly obliged. He shifts slightly, though, and Sirius interjects --

“Hey, um, yeah, um . . . I’m sorry,” he manages.

Remus wonders idly if he’s ever really had to apologize before, and says nothing.

“What I did . . . what I did was stupid, incredibly stupid, probably the worst decision I’ve ever made.” He laughs humorlessly. “And I really don’t know what I was thinking, trust me, I’ve tried to figure it out, and you could’ve gone to Azkaban or been . . . but anyway I’m sorry.”

Remus stares at him.

“Moony? Remus?”

Well. That is his name.

“Remus, are you okay?”

A raised eyebrow.

“I don’t know what else to tell you. I was stupid, I hurt you, and I’m sorry. It won’t happen again?”

Nothing.

“Merlin, what more do you want from me, Remus?”

He doesn’t know.

* * *

 

Madame Pomfrey makes him go back to the dormitories the next day, making snide comments about injured patients needing her beds more than patients afraid of facing their problems. And so he picks up the books he’s left on the floor and trudges over to Gryffindor Tower. He forces a bit of a smile for James, sort of nods at Peter, dumps his books on his bed, and walks back down to the Common Room.

He sits and talks to Lily for a bit so he looks busy, talks about meaningless things like the weather and exams and whether Professor Binns had even noticed he was gone. Lily is easy to talk to, carrying on the conversation when Remus can’t, and he feels slightly more human, interacting with another person for the pleasure of it. But then James comes down and, undeterred by Lily, announces that they’re going to lunch and that Remus should join them -- “and the lovely Miss Evans, too, of course” -- and he is reminded that he is so, so other. Still, he hasn’t the heart to say no. Lily ignores his imploring looks and waves him on, and if he didn’t know better he’d say she knew the whole sordid story, too.

Lunch is spent pushing food around on his plate and making forced conversation with anyone but Sirius. He doesn’t think he’s spoken to Peter this much in a year. And now he knows that Peter’s two favorite foods are cheese and treacle tart, after much debate over which dessert was the best, so that’s great. It’s all great and he wishes Sirius would say something to shut Peter up but he hates him and never wants to hear his voice again. James is trying so hard to include everyone in the conversation without making them talk to each other, asking direct questions and monologuing when need be.

Is this how it will be from now on?

* * *

 

Halloween comes and goes, and now it’s far enough into November that the house-elves have started decorating for Christmas. Peter is afraid of him now. Remus can think of several reasons why he should be. Sirius has given up on addressing Remus directly at this point, though Remus can tell that Sirius pitches his voice differently when there’s something he wants him to hear. Remus is . . . coping. He’s lost weight, and there are days when it’s all he can do to get out of bed and go to Transfiguration. But he turns in his homework and pokes at his meals and he breathes and life goes on.

James is holding up admirably. But then again, he’s currently accosting Remus while Sirius and Peter are raiding the kitchens, so maybe that assessment was premature.

“This has gone on long enough,” he says firmly. Remus opens his mouth to protest but is quickly cut off.

“No. What Sirius did was shitty. But you’re not being much better right now. He’s apologized, he’s spent his time in purgatory. I don’t know what you’re waiting for.”

But he isn’t waiting, exactly. He isn’t even angry and more. He’s just so tired. He hasn’t got the energy to figure out how to forgive.

“Look,” James sighs. “I’m not saying you have to go back to the way you were before. Just, talk to him, yeah?” He rubs at his face awkwardly. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

Talk to Sirius. He can manage that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANGST ANGST ANGST ANGST ANGST
> 
> This was probably the longest and most emotionally draining chapter to write, which is why it took so long. More notes to follow after the next, shorter chapter.


	16. Sanctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James receives an unexpected guest.

“How could he help him?

Miserable youth! in flight

from a non-father,

an incoherent mother,

in pursuit of -- what?”

 

James is just sitting down to a lunch of Christmas leftovers with his family when there’s a knock at the door. Mopsy gets it, of course, but instead of calling for his father (it’s usually Ministry business, these days), she calls for James. Confused, he heads out to the entry hall. He’d been meaning to invite everyone over, but unless someone is a Legilimens, he shouldn’t be the one with a guest. But when he sees Sirius standing there, looking very small between the stairway and the black trunk he’s propped up next to him, it all starts to make a little bit more sense.

“Sirius?” he asks by way of announcing himself. Mopsy makes herself scarce.

Sirius turns, hope and trepidation flitting across his face in equal measure. “Hey, James.”

“Hey. Happy Christmas! Or, you know, belated Christmas.” Does he let him take the lead, here?

“Yeah.” Sirius laughs. “I left them, James. I just . . . they were all over for Christmas and they weren’t even more horrible than usual, it was me who’s changed, I guess. But I had to sit there listening to their bigoted lies and pretend that I didn’t want to wipe those smirks off their fat, ugly faces. And Regulus was eating it up but I just couldn’t be one of them any more, I couldn’t keep it up, so as soon as the festivities were over I packed everything I could into my trunk and caught the Knight Bus and now I’m here, and . . .” He pauses, looking at James and then back down to the carpet. “Could I stay here? At least for a little while?”

“Yeah, yeah, absolutely, stay as long as you need,” James hastens to say. “I’m sure my parents won’t mind. Here, we’re just about to have lunch, have you eaten?” He slowly leads Sirius toward the dining room, trying not to pry any further. “Mopsy will take you stuff upstairs.” Sirius follows mutely.

“Oh, Sirius!” James’ mum exclaims. “It’s so good to see you! We keep trying to get James to have some friends over but he’s just been dragging his heels. Are you staying for lunch?”

“Um, yeah, if you’ll have me,” he mumbles, shuffling awkwardly to a chair next to James’.

James glances at him carefully, but it doesn’t seem like he’s going to say anything else. “Mum, Dad,” he starts, “would it be okay if Sirius stayed with us for a while?” He’s not sure how to phrase it to imply permanence without assuming anything -- he doesn’t think Sirius will be going back to his family, somehow, but if Sirius has a plan, he hasn’t really told him much.

His parents exchange a look. “Yes, of course,” his dad says, looking pointedly at James. He knows he has some explaining to do, later. But then he turns to Sirius and softens. “You can stay as long as you like. Roast beef?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who wrote fanfiction instead of paying attention in biology? Anyway, thanks for bearing with me thus far. Here's the next installment, etc. (Is Mopsy a good name for a house elf??? I also really like the idea of Sirius running away via Knight Bus just like Harry did . . .) I might actually finish this for NaNoWriMo, so that could be fun. I can't really make any promises, but yeah. Suffice to say that this weekend was spent marathoning movies 1, 3, 4, and 5, so I'm having a lot of Harry Potter feelings, so more chapters are probably on the way. Yeah. Thanks for reading!


	17. Humoral Composition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Career Advisement is a bit dodgy when the Wizarding world's on the brink of war, but that doesn't mean McGonagall won't soldier on.

“A choleric type,

he was always butting in

to defend the Jews

against the mob, or the poor

against the King’s warreners.”

 

James finds them in the Common Room after his Career Advisement meeting. Sirius quietly thanks Merlin and any other powers that be that he and Remus are at a point where they can be left alone together and get along, however cautiously -- James shouldn’t have to babysit them. James stops, though, before reaching the two of them and snaps at a couple of first-years who are tossing around the M-word. Sirius glances at Remus, and receives a pointed head jerk toward James for his trouble.

Sirius scoots closer to the edge of the loveseat -- closer to Remus’ armchair -- to make room for James. “So, how was your meeting with Minnie?” he asks as casually as possible.

“Oh, it was fine, you know, same old, same old,” James replies airily. Sirius feels justified in making Remus call him on it, and settles in to wait.

“Do you know what you want to be when you grow up, then?” Moony does not disappoint. “Got a master plan?”

“I mean, it’s all a bit up in the air, what with, you know,” James gestures vaguely, “but I’d like to be an Auror.” _Like my dad_ , Sirius mentally fills in. “So the courseload is pretty straightforward from there.” He coughs and deflects. “What about you, Moony? I never got a chance to ask.”

Remus seems to shrink in his chair. “Well, you know, as things are, it’s not so much what I’d like to be as what I’m allowed to be, so -- I figure I’ll take as many classes as I can, so I’ll be prepared for whoever will have me. But I might still end up working in the Muggle world. I could be a librarian,” he muses thoughtfully.

James seems unfazed by the bleakness of Remus’ future. Sirius still forgets, on good days, how far-reaching the consequences of Remus’ lycanthropy are. “You don’t need to worry,” James declares grandly, perking up a bit. “If your furry little problem ends up being any more ornery, you can always come stay at mine like Sirius. Not once Evans and I are married and on our way to having several beautiful babies, obviously. I’ll have to figure out something else to do with you lot then. But yeah, until that point.” He shrugs.

“Thanks,” Remus says, strained. Sirius tries his best to look comforting, unable to shake the impression that his face is grimacing instead. “So how are things progressing with Lily?” continues Remus. Sirius shoots him the evil eye, but then James moping about Evans is, surprisingly, the most tolerable form of moping -- anything else and he seems genuinely upset.

“Well, when she brushed past me on the stairs it was particularly friendly, if you know what I mean . . .”

Sirius gets comfortable, and tries his best not to stare off into space looking directly at Remus, bathed in firelight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those interested, I've decided that in accordance with the 4 humors of the Ancient Greeks,  
> James: choleric (excitable, impulsive, reckless, egocentric, extroverted)  
> Peter: phlegmatic (inward and private, thoughtful, reasonable, calm)  
> Remus: melancholic (serious, introverted, cautious, or even suspicous)  
> Sirius: sanguine (lively, sociable, carefree, flighty). 
> 
> So yeah, more notes to come.


	18. Elided Metaphors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just some late night Muggle Studies homework.

“His thoughts pottered

from verses to sex to God

without punctuation.”

 

Remus had thought, when he got his O in his History of Magic O.W.L., that he would finally be done with mind-numbingly boring readings about people he wasn’t entirely convinced had ever existed. However, in Muggle Studies they are now taking a break from the practical and looking for how Muggle epic poetry provides explanations for magical occurrences, and if Remus has to read one more kenning about Hrothgar or that bloody sword, he’s not sure if he or the book will make it through the night. Carefully, he puts a bookmark (handmade by Peter, a last-minute Christmas present) in place of his fingers, shoves the book over, and slumps over the table in defeat. He’ll just close his eyes for ten minutes. Then he’ll finish the reading.

He’s so tired, these days. N.E.W.T. classes do, in fact, have more homework, and it’s not as though he hadn’t been warned, but he’d never really believed the.The disillusionment was swift and painful. And then there’s his condition, obviously, which doesn’t exactly make things easier, each full moon looming like the glint of the guillotine’s knife. Between the two, a good night’s sleep has become a thing of the past. He’s not sure what he’d have done if he didn’t know how to get into the kitchens -- you get surprisingly peckish when you’re kicked out of the library at midnight and going back to your dormitory to study some more.

Sirius comes with him down to the kitchens, sometimes. Remus isn’t sure why he’s still up -- surely he isn’t doing homework? -- but he’s glad for the company nonetheless. One of them grabs the cloak from wherever James (who somehow goes to sleep at a normal hour) left it that day and they make the trip downstairs together. If Remus secretly finds it a little bit thrilling each time, it’s just because the novelty of being out after-hours has never worn off, not because of the way Sirius’ shoulder feels pressed against his, their hands brushing lightly past each other. When they get down there Remus will have left-overs of whatever was for dessert that night and Sirius will have a sandwich or even just some cold meat, and it’s strangely cozy and lovely and really nothing very much at all. They talk, of course, about the people in their lives or sometimes just whatever comes to mind, but sometimes silence fills the air, and that’s nice, too.

Remus is glad that they’re able to do this, glad that they can get along and be close again. He’s not sure how they managed it, if he’s honest with himself, but he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. There’s still some sort of tension between them, making silences pregnant and words weighty, but. Well. It’s best not to think about that. It’s probably all in Remus’ head, anyway.

After all, who would want someone like him? He’s a wreck, by any definition of the word, and he doesn’t have time for proper sleep, let alone a . . . relationship. This is just one more thing he doesn’t talk about, something that James and Sirius will never have occasion to ferret out of him. It’s fine.

He wonders why, sometimes. About all of it. With his lycanthropy at least there’s some chain of causality, but still, why him? He wasn’t raised in any sort of religion and he’s glad of it, glad to be free of one more institution that would only shun him. He swears by Merlin, of course, but the older he gets the more and more empty it seems. He’s not entirely convinced that Merlin ever existed, either. And even if he did, there’s no reason that he should have power over Remus’ life. But he knows better than to disbelieve any prophecies, and if prophecies can be made then there must be some sort of set chain of events, and he can’t help wondering why this timeline is his, this narrative as the shadow-walker, the hail-watcher, the shepherd of sins, the killer-guest. Neither straight nor gay, not wholly human or wholly wolf. Still, wholly monster, he supposes.

His nose is starting to hurt from being pressed against the table for so long. Twenty more pages left, and then he can sleep. He can do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, "the shadow-walker", "the hail-watcher", "the shepherd of sins", and "the killer-guest" are all kennings for Grendel, the monster in the epic poem Beowulf that Remus is reading. Also I saw an explanation of bisexuality on Tumblr about how you're always a werewolf whether you're in human or wolf form, and always bi whether you're dating a guy or a girl, so that may have possibly informed this . . . I can't remember where it was to cite it, but the idea was not wholly mine. I think that's all that needs explaining?
> 
> I just wanted to say a quick thank you to all of you who keep reading this story. It's been looked at almost 400 times, people have left kudos (<3) and bookmarked and there are even people who want to emailed when this story updates and I'm just constantly overwhelmed and grateful that I'm not just shouting into the abyss. So yeah. You guys are awesome :)

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you've enjoyed this first in a series of 36 one-shots. I have 12 chapters written so far, so you can expect pretty frequent updates for a while, and then hopefully every week -- let's say, Thursday? Currently, this only runs through TOotP, but if there's significant interest I might go ahead and string it out until TDH. We'll see. Thanks for reading, constructive criticism always welcome, I own nothing, etc, etc. Yeah. I'll have the next chapter up by the end of the weekend.


End file.
